


The Stars (I Named After You)

by Anzellous



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Gen, M/M, Oreshi and Bokushi, Reincarnation, lotsa dream sequences, more characters and ships to be added, semi-nonlinear, they're part of the plot i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-09-12 22:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16880250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anzellous/pseuds/Anzellous
Summary: He’d tried, once, over break, to sleep for a long time. He wanted one long, uninterrupted dream, where he could be with the one he loved the most. But he’d only been able to dream of him the first time, and any subsequent attempts to sleep and dream were met with a fitful, uncomfortable blankness.Pathetic.Was it pathetic to love a dream? He knew that these dreams, and this man, had been gracing him for a long time. In fact, he couldn’t a remember a time where he wasn’t thinking of him, or dreaming of him. Once upon a time, he thinks he knew his name. But just like everything else about him, about these tortuously wonderful dreams, it’s only remembered in halves, quarters, eighths, and sixteenths.His name was wonderful.It made him shiver.





	1. Pictoris

**Author's Note:**

> Pictoris /pɪkˈtoʊrɪs/ : Pictoris is a small constellation bordered by Columba to the north, Puppis and Carina to the east, Caelum to the northwest, Dorado to the southwest and Volans to the south. First described as "The Easel and Palette" in 1756, it was originally called "Equuleus Pictorius". The word "Equuleus" means small horse, or easel—perhaps from an old custom among artists of carrying a canvas on a donkey.

Furihata Kouki wondered if its possible to fall in love with someone you’d never seen before. 

Was it possible to know so much about someone that it made your heart ache to be away from them, even if you’d never heard their name, or seen their face?

Because if such a thing were possible, if something like that could be done, then he was convinced that that was what was happening to him. At night, as he drifted off to sleep, he stared at the stars. Stuck against his ceiling since he was a child, their fading, soft green glow eased him into the realm of dreams, where he felt safe.

Every time, every night without fail, he would open his eyes to another canvas of stars, this time against the dark expanse of sky. Deep inside, he knew it was a dream. He knew, that in reality, he was only here for a few moments, a few fleeting seconds, even, but in the moment, he felt like he was experiencing an entirely new life.

Next to him, he knew, was the person he loved. 

But, to be fair, he was not Furihata Kouki. 

And this was not a place he’d seen before.

“--s, for all the ways I think--”

“Surely not.”

Did he have this dream before? The responses came easily, quickly, as if they’d had this conversation before. 

But then again, the responses always came quickly. 

There was a slight shift, as someone sat down and laid next to him in the grass. Soft wind rustled it near his ears, and he felt the every so slight brush of skin against the back of his hand, as his love settled next to him. It sent a shock through his arm, up to his shoulder, and to the tips of his toes, and the pads of his fingers.

He loved this person. 

“...ca…ry, nonetheless. You’re so impudent….”

It was like trying to tune into a frequency even as you drive away from the last radio tower. Parts, bits and pieces, the occasional full word broke through the haze, but most of it slipped through his fingers into the crevasses. Why couldn’t he hear them? He strained his ears, but the rustling wind carried away his words, fluttering away and settling elsewhere like autumn leaves.

‘Come back,’ Kouki found himself thinking. ‘Please, I want to know...’

Their voice was deep, like velvet, and slid over him in soft waves like silk and satin. He sensed, rather than heard, his partner laugh. He’d never heard their laugh. He felt cheated. 

“...ny? Do you think it’s funny?”

His partner shifted, and Kouki felt their hand slide into his. In a moment, his senses were overwhelmed. Hands larger than his own, but he knew, smaller than some men grasped his with a warm fondness. He could feel the softness of his palm, but the callouses on his fingertips, and on the thumb from holding a pen. A writer?

‘Not a pen.’

The thought didn’t come from his mind. But it came from somewhere inside him, deeper, deeper down. 

‘A brush.’

An artist?

‘A poet.’

His poems must be beautiful.

‘They are.’

I love him.

‘I do too.’

A smile came to his face unbidden, and he looked up at the sky again. He traced the lines of the stars, their signs, reciting their names to himself like a mantra. He didn’t know the names of the constellations, but yet he did. It was as if he spoke them into existence in that moment, and his words flew into the sky to become the constellations themselves. In that moment, with his partner grasping his hand, he was both himself and not-himself, he was him and also everything else. He was Furihata Kouki, but also a man that wasn’t Furihata Kouki. He was Furihata Kouki, and the wind that blew through his hair.

The man squeezed his hand, and he was Furihata Kouki and the infinite expanse of space above him, opening wider and wider until he thought he would fall.

“n…. op….?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Just for one moment…?”

“It’s against the rules.”

Everything sounded so clear suddenly. The wind stopped, and everything felt still. The heavens didnt spin, and Kouki became only himself.

“...ase... m...on... dy r....st.”

The pad of his thumb stroking his head felt like a lewd, hedonistic pleasure. 

“It would be improper.”

“I... loo.... e, ...’ll die, ... ow.”

His eyes slid closed.

‘No, please, not yet, not yet--’

“No you wont--”

“.... al.... ill--”

Fainter, ever fainter, and Kouki wanted to scream. He tried to open his eyes, but it was not his body. He could feel himself becoming aware of the walls of his room, the weight of his comforter, and the awkward position his head was at since his pillow had slipped as he slept.

“When I’m ready, I’ll find you.” 

‘I’ll find you.’

Kouki opened his eyes, his own eyes, to stare at the muted stickers on his ceiling, drained of their glow by the early morning sun.

His love's voice, crisp and clear like the warm sun filtering through his windows: 

_“I’ll wait for you then.”_

* * *

He dragged a hand down the side of his face. Already, the specifics of his dream were fading away. The constellations he had named so easily, the profession of his beloved, all of it was being trashed by his brain even as he tried to grasp at the memories. His love, he remembered, sounded so sweet, and so smitten. Furihata absently stroked his hand in the same way as in his dream, hoping to relive that sort of sweetness. 

It wasn’t the same. His love had some sort of magic in their touch he was convinced, because no other contact could illicit that same sort of electrifying sensation. Even though he hadn’t been awake long, he already wanted to go back to sleep.

He’d tried, once, over break, to sleep for a long time. He wanted one long, uninterrupted dream, where he could be with the one he loved the most. But he’d only been able to dream of him the first time, and any subsequent attempts to sleep and dream were met with a fitful, uncomfortable blankness. 

Pathetic. 

Was it pathetic to love a dream? He knew that these dreams, and this man, had been gracing him for a long time. In fact, he couldn’t a remember a time where he wasn’t thinking of him, or dreaming of him. Once upon a time, he thinks he knew his name. But just like everything else about him, about these torturously wonderful dreams, it’s only remembered in halves, quarters, eighths, and sixteenths.

His name was wonderful.

It made him shiver.

* * *

“Are you cold?”

Furihata jumped out of his seat, landing on the carpeted library floor with an undignified yelp. It was fortunate that the library was empty for now aside from the two of them, or else the school librarian would definitely have some sharp words and sharp “shhh”-es for the two of them. “Kuroko…! You shouldn’t come out of nowhere like that!”

“I was--”

“--here the whole time yeah I bet you were.”

Kuroko’s facial expression didn’t change, but Furihata could tell that he was smirking. Kuroko smirked on the inside. It was more of a sensation, an instinctive feeling than something you could really see. 

“To tell you the truth, I only came in recently, Furhata-kun.” He sat next to him, patting the chair that he’d frightened Furihata out of. He climbed back into his seat with a soft huff, picking his book up off the ground. It was a fairy tale he’d read, about a princess cursed to sleep for all eternity. 

Considering his own situation, he was sort of envious.

“But, I will restate my question: are you cold? You were shivering earlier.”

“Nah. I was just thinking about stuff, you know? You ever just… sit down and stare at nothing and kinda just…. Think About Stuff?”

“Are you talking about Thinking About Stuff or thinking about stuff?”

“For someone who doesn’t speak with that much emphasis, it’s weird that I can tell that you capitalized that first ‘thinking about stuff’.”

“I learned from The Best.” Kuroko said, giving Furihata a look with a small smile and a devious little glint.

“Stop!” He chuckled and elbowed Kuroko slightly. “For what it’s worth, I was Thinking About Stuff, not thinking about stuff.”

Kuroko gave a soft hum, and opened a book. They’d done this quite a few times, so even though Kuroko was no longer giving him his undivided attention, he knew that he was still listening. 

He’d told him once, that because of his relatively small frame and weak presence, that people watching was a hobby of his. No one noticed when he was there, and so he was free to somewhat voyeuristically spy on others. When Furihata had first learned this it weirded him out, but now he recognized it as Kuroko’s way of saying that he was uniquely in tune with everyone around him, even if he didn’t know them that well. Even if he didnt look at Furihata, he was listening, and taking note of his gestures and movements. 

“Do you think,” Furihata said, pushing back onto the back two legs of his chair. “It’s possible to fall in love with someone you’ve never actually met?”

A moment of pensive silence, and then, “Personally, that depends on what you classify as ‘never actually meeting’.”

“Like….” Furihata gestured vaguely in front of him. He wanted Kuroko’s opinion, but at the same time didn’t want him to realize that he was talking about himself. He glanced quickly at the book to his left and held it up for emphasis. “Like, in this book! The princess, right; she’s asleep. And the prince, right--”

“Yes--”

“--he comes and saves her. Kisses her right on the li--”

“-- sounds kinda ho--”

“--what? No, absolutely no--”

“--that’s how I would wanna get my first k--”

Furihata can’t stop the strangled laugh that bubbles out of him like a dog’s bark. “You want your first kiss to be while your aslee--”

“--well, what if they’re ugl--”

“--oh my god, Kuroko--”

“--Furihata-kun, I’m just being reasonable--”

“--how is that reasonable?”

The two are in a fit of giggles, Kuroko’s face hidden slightly by his book. It looks like an older title, about a scientist, if the man on the cover in a lab coat is to be believed. Furihata finds it hard to believe that once upon a time he’d thought of Kuroko as an emotionless, dead fish. 

After their giggles passed, Furihata let out a sigh, and held up the book again.

“So anyway--”

“--the somnophilliac prince, yes--”

“--thats not the point. The prince comes and kisses her, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“And—she’s cursed, right?—and can only be awakened by true love’s kiss.”

“Standard fairy tale “fare” as it were--” 

“--oh my god; was that a pun--”

“Furihata-kun I cannot answer your question if you keep responding to my side comments--”

“--doesn’t that mean you should stop making side comments, then--”

“--so please complete your thought.” Kuroko finished, with no promises of cutting down on his running commentary.

“Anyway, the prince comes and kisses her, and it breaks the curse! All…. True love-y and junk.”

“Right.”

“So, then, the Prince and the Princess have to have been in love, right? But they’d never met before that. So how could they have been in love if they’d never met before? Wouldn’t that be impossible?”

Kuroko let out another enigmatic hum. He closed his book, looking up towards the ceiling as he really thought about it. While Kuroko was just as much as a basketball idiot as Kagami, there was a bit more thoughtfulness behind his actions. He was a bit more book smart, and so could hide his basketball otaku nature behind his generally decent grades and love of reading. After turning the thought in his head a bit, Kuroko looked at him with his normal, placid expression. 

“I think,” he says, with a tone of slight amusement, “That it’s a fairy tale, and it’s usefulness for talking about actual human emotions is severely limited.”

Furihata felt somewhat crushed. “Kuroko--”

He held up his hand. “But--”

“But?”

“But, I also think there’s something to be said about falling in love with someone’s aura.”

“...their aura?”

He gave a slight nod. “Just like I have a particularly weak aura, there are those with different auras. I believe that even though you’ve never “met” someone, you can get a feel for who they are by their aura. I think it is possible to fall in love with their aura.”

Furihata thought about it. In truth, he’d never seen his love. He didnt know his face, his name, or even, really, what exactly he liked, other than presumably poetry. But the sensations he felt…

Another shiver came down his spine. 

Falling in love with his aura, huh….?

“Are you still ‘Thinking About Stuff’, Furihata-kun?” he said in lightly teasing tone, the corners of his mouth quirked ever so slightly.

He elbowed Kuroko in the side again.


	2. Crateris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time: 21:36  
> Reo: chichan, did you know seichan is bad at writing poetry? :o @Chihiro  
> Chihiro: No, but isnt something like that obvious?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crateris /krəˈtiːrɪs/ : Crateris is identified with a story from Greek mythology in which a crow or raven serves Apollo, and is sent to fetch water, but it rests lazily on the journey. After finally obtaining the water in a cup, takes back a water snake as an excuse. According to the myth, Apollo saw through the fraud, and angrily cast the crow, cup, and snake, into the sky.

With certainty, there was only a few things that Akashi Seijuurou knew that he hated. Most things he didn’t care enough to form an opinion about, and this, as it turned out, was the best approach. 

Being able to say with unwavering confidence that you loved or hated something was just like admitting that you’d lost. It was acknowledging your own inability to ignore the parts of things that were unpleasant. It was admitting that your skin wasn’t thick enough. And if there was one thing that an Akashi always was, it was ‘enough’. 

Yet, even he had things that he loathed as much as a human being was capable of loathing something. He loathed poetry.

Perhaps it was an odd thing to put on the solid “hate” list, next to people chewing with their mouths open and the noise that windshield wipers make when they need replacing; that awful, squeaky sound, and the way it would stutter across the windshield like a poorly done staccato—just thinking about it made his skin crawl in the most unpleasant of ways; but it was true. Next to those two things, hating poetry seemed silly. 

But to him, poetry was the worst kind of communication. It was saying words without saying anything. Painting a garden of purple prose but nothing that would bear fruit.

Poetry was pointless.

And also, he thought, as he stared at the blank paper in front of him with the sounds of Maji Burger in the background, really hard.

Akashi would never begrudge something for being too hard, but he would begrudge something being hard for him specifically and seemingly no one else.

“C’mon, it’s not that hard—just think about something and use fancy words to describe it. You’re basically a walking encyclopedia anyways.” Hayama said, his own homework forgotten in favor of texting on his phone. He was slumped forward almost entirely on the table, his phone inches from his face even as his math homework is irreparably crumpled under his body weight. 

“Well, that’s not how I would phrase it, but… poetry is all about emotions, Sei-chan. If you think too hard, you won’t be able to transfer those pure, raw emotions into your steamy poetry~!”

“Steamy…?”

“What kind of poetry is “steamy”, Reo-nee?”

“You know, declarations of love, and declarations of romantic intent, and--”

“I don’t think my teacher wants me to turn in a poem about falling in love with someone, Mibuchi.”

“It shouldn’t matter, as long as your intentions are pure, and your emotions are honest, you know?”

Hayama hummed, looking over at Seijuurou. “Well, just write something, and we can help you edit it, yeah?”

Akashi looked over to him. “...That’s the most genuinely helpful thing I think you’ve ever said to me.”

“...I would be more offended if you weren’t probably right about that.”

“I think we should be worried Sei-chan; he’s becoming self-aware.”

“Hello, Student Guidance Section, my friends are bullying me--”

Akashi tuned Mibuchi and Hayama out as they chatted. It felt weird, being the only person actually focusing on doing his homework. It was one of the rare times that he really felt his age, when Mibuchi tried to help him finish his homework. Sometimes he forgot that the Uncrowned Kings were indeed his senpais, that they were older, and in some ways more experienced than him. 

Usually not in any ways that mattered greatly, but they had both taken and passed this class, and so they were uniquely equipped to tell him what exactly the teacher wanted from him. This wasn’t usually a problem he had—he’d been trained in all manner of charismatic discourse, but for some reason, poetry was just not one of them.

He sighed and just decided to write something. He doubted Hayama could be of much help, but he knew Mibuchi loved stuff like this, and valued his opinion more anyway.

Not that he didn’t value Hayama as a person, but with no offense to him, he’d caught a glimpse of the work he’d saved from his time in this class, and every single one devolved into rhyming something with “spaghetti”, for no reason Seijuurou could see other than he just could. Appropriateness of Italian pasta related stanzas aside, he wasn’t particularly interested in turning in something that devolved into soft-core pasta rap.

[ Soft-core only? ]

‘Why is that the part that you decide to focus on?’

[ I’m sorry if I don’t find your whining about how bad you are at composing poetry to be particularly interesting. ]

‘You’re not sorry.’

[ You’re right I’m not. In fact I take pride in that. ]

‘Take pride in my inability to compose poetry, or take pride in how much you don’t care?’

[ I’ll take both for 5000, Rou-chan. ]

‘I’d smack you if you weren’t in my brain.’

[ Write a poem about that, then. ]

‘It would be awful.’

[ It would be funny. It would be awful and funny. Awfunny. ]

‘I’m going to hurt you.’

[ Do it, you won’t. ]

He rubbed his head. Sometimes dealing with Him was a pain. He’d only become aware of Him in the last couple of years, but based on what He said, He’d been around for a long time. He knew things about Akashi’s childhood, about his traumas, and things he didn’t even face about himself. It was weird, knowing one day that there had always been someone else watching you, with your own eyes, but without your permission. It felt intensely voyeuristic, and it honestly made him a little nauseous. He’d read somewhere that things like this could be treated in some amount with medication, and Akashi had been considering taking that route for the last few weeks.

Would He feel pain if he took medicine to mitigate the symptoms he felt, he wondered…?

[ No I wouldn’t. ]

‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

[ You aren’t talking at all. ]

Absently, Akashi began to write his poem. It didn’t have to be long, and maybe that was part of the reason it bothered him that he struggled so much with something that honestly wasn’t all that taxing on a physical level.

“Oh! I wanna read!”

And just like that his paper was gone, and he knew that he’d left an undignified line from his pen on the paper as Hayama took it suddenly and without waiting for his pen to lift.

Hayama cleared his throat.

“Brother I don’t know,  
Pay rent, you stupid squatter  
I hate you so much.”

Silence.

“W… well… Sei-chan, no one can doubt your emotions come through clearly...”

“Bro-ther-I-dont-know… pay-rent-you-stu-pid-squa-tter…I-hate-you-so-much…Well, I mean…it’s a haiku, if nothing else...”

Akashi seemed to brighten a little bit. “Do you think I’ll get extra points for it being a haiku?”

“If anything I feel like you’ll get points taken away for it being a haiku.”

“Well… Sei-chan is Japanese, so maybe…?”

“We’re all Japanese, Reo-nee.”

Mibuchi gave a helpless shrug, and meek look in Akashi’s direction. He didn’t like the look on his face.

“Sorry Sei-chan, I tried.”

The sound his head made when it made contact with the table was decidedly un-Akashi-like, but the soft pats on his back from Mibuchi made him feel a little bit better.

* * *

Akashi climbed out of the tub after a long relaxing soak and checked his phone. He had a frankly obscene number of messages, all from the Rakuzan first-string group chat. 

When he’d made it (when he was not quite himself) he’d laid down a strict guidelines of rules; that every message had to be personally approved by him, and that all conversation had to remain related to basketball. There was to be no idle chatter, no unnecessary comments, and everything was to be posted with the goal of reaching an unprecedented level of absolute perfection.

But now (now that he was himself) it had become a normal chat. The Uncrowned Kings posted in there a lot, joking and goofing off. Mayuzumi had tried to delete himself from the chat multiple times, stating that as a third year he wouldn’t even be on the team anymore come March, and all the notifications were really starting to get on his nerves. 

Hayama had simply responded that he would be allowed to leave the chat in March, and not an hour before.

The Nebuya posted a series of 1000 degree knife videos and the conversation had only derailed from there.

He swiped up as he sat at his desk, curious as to what his teammates were getting into this time.

 

Time: 21:36  
**Reo:** chichan, did you know seichan is bad at writing poetry? :o @Chihiro

 **Chihiro:** No, but isnt something like that obvious?

 **Koutarou:** obvious??????? 

**Koutarou:** idk about u but akashi not bein able 2 do smth is super unobvious

 **Eikichi:** I feel like he could pilot a plane if he wanted to

 **Eikichi:** or properly chop fugu

 **Eikichi:** or pilot a plane WHILE properly chopping fugu

 **Reo:** why would he ever need to do that =.=U

 **Koutarou:** u never know reonee!!!! maybe hes being held at gunpoint!!!!!

 **Chihiro:** …to fly a plane while cutting up a potentially poisonous fish?

 **Koutarou:** u never kno!!!!!!! ppl r in2 weird things these days!!!!!!!

 **Eikichi:** god

 **Reo:** okay, leaving THAT thought on the side of the road where it belongs…>_>

 **Reo:** why do you think it’s obvious sei-chan wouldn’t be able to write poetry? :?

 **Reo:** he’s kinda sorta really good at like…everything.

 **Chihiro:** Okay, what are some thing Akashi is good at?

 **Chihiro:** List them.

 **Eikichi:** shogi

 **Reo:** math.

 **Koutarou:** basketball!!!!!!!

 **Eikichi:** violin

 **Reo:** business

 **Koutarou:** basketball!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 **Eikichi:** heard hes good at horseback riding

 **Reo:** hes student council president too.

 **Koutarou:** basketball!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 **Chihiro:** Thanks for your input everyone except Hayama.

 **Koutarou:** dont h8 :P

 **Chihiro:** Anyway.

 **Chihiro:** Akashi is really good at stuff that has a specific method to it.

 **Chihiro:** In shogi, the pieces all move in specific ways, and you gotta keep a cool head.

 **Chihiro:** As a famous book once said, “keep your heart cold, and your head working”

 **Eikichi:** you got that from one of those light novels, didnt you

 **Chihiro:** Unrelated.

 **Chihiro:** Poetry isn’t like that. There isn’t really a right or a wrong way to do poetry.

 **Chihiro:** There is no clear and methodical “way”.

 **Chihiro:** So our methodical Emperor is floundering without structure.

 **Chihiro:** I mean, when was the last time out captain Had An Emotion?

 **Reo:** earlier today, if frustration is an emotion :|

 **Chihiro:** Frustration isn’t an emotion it’s a way of life.

 **Eikichi:** that may very well be the saddest thing I ever done heard get said

 **Chihiro:** That is a point of pride.

 **Reo:** you take pride in the strangest things, chichan

 **Koutarou:** I didnt think mayuzumi had pride

 **Chihiro:** Y’know, the funny thing is I know that’s supposed to be a burn

 **Chihiro:** But you’re right. I have never once had pride in anything.

 **Chihiro:** This, too, is a point of pride.

 **Eikichi:** you know what I take it back

 **Eikichi:** that is the saddest thing I ever done heard get said

 **Seijuurou:** You all know that I can read this, right…?

* * *

Honestly, Akashi isn’t sure when he fell asleep.

He didn’t remember laying back in his bed, or snuggling under his covers, or turning off his light. One moment he was sitting at his desk, working his way through a handout he’d been given as make-up work for missing a week of class on a business trip with his father, and the next moment he was asleep.

Akashi had always been a lucid dreamer, since he was young, and didn’t know what it meant. 

[ I want to show you something. ]

_In his dreams, the “other” him was stronger. His dreams felt more like a simulation of a memory, something buried deep down inside of him, deeper than his subconscious, that he was unaware of. But since the “other” him was also from that deep, hidden place, he figured the two were related, and rarely tried to think about it any more than that._

_Besides, the dreams were always delightful._

_Despite the cold, cruel, and hateful person the “other” him had been when he’d been in control, this time, here, in this hidden place, he had never showed a harmful thing._

_This time, he was in a room. It was old, and distinctly Japanese. The house had a distinct wintery chill that he could feel on his cheeks and hands, but he was dressed appropriately, a warm hanten keeping the chill off of him. His feet were also warm, and he looked down and saw thickly padded socks. Like normal, the dreams didn’t start in a logical place. He always entered in the middle of doing something. He’d been sitting, seiza with a calligraphy brush poised in his hand. He’d just finished writing something._

_A poem._

_The Japanese was unrecognizable. The kanas were strange and barely legible, while the kanji was an abomination of strokes and radicals._

_Yet the words were clear._

_When the sanguine cold_  
Grabs my chest, I feel at ease  
Silk wind cradles me 

_He puts down the brush, and stands in one smooth motion, tucking his cold hands into the sleeves of his hanten. The lamps in the room have just about burned out, and the dark has begun to sink in. He douses the flame, and leaves, allowing it grow cold. The hall, oddly, is warmer. The laps still burn softly, and he passes by each. Slowly, he glides, as if not touching the ground._

_“...r…? ere…?”_

_Akashi stops. That’s odd. In all his dreams, he’d never heard someone so muffled. He took a deep breath, and exerted his will. Become clearer, he told his dream._

_[ That won’t work here. ]_

_‘What do you mean?’_

_He doesn’t elaborate, but he follows the voice._

_It comes from the kitchen, and he opens the sliding door just a crack to peek inside. Inside is a man, dressed in luxurious silks, far more elegant than his own. His hair is long, pouring over his shoulders like a soft waterfall. He glides easily around the kitchen, and unlike the uneasiness Akashi felt when he moved, this man looks ethereal in his motions. Perfectly practiced, as he watched the man pour tea into a a cup with a glaring imperfection on one side. Seijuurou remembered his mother telling him that when it came to teacups like that one, having one side slightly imperfect was ideal._

_She’d told him that it marked which part of the cup was the “front”, so to speak._

_The man, Akashi knew, was singing. He was singing a song that He knew. Not Akashi himself, but Him. Whoever he was supposed to be in this dream._

_Yet to Akashi, the words chopped in and out. The snippets of the melody he could hear were beautiful._

_The man settled everything properly onto the tray, and lifted it. He turned towards the door._

_Akashi’s breath caught in his throat, his whole existence seemed to stop._

_This man was beautiful._

Akashi woke up with a crick in his neck, ink on his face, and drool mark on his science homework. 


	3. Horologium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh yeah, I remembered. How’s that thing with your dreams going? Any change?”
> 
> “Same as always. It’s not like I want them to change or anything. I kinda like them.”
> 
> “Well, just because you like something doesn’t mean its good for you.”
> 
> “I know that.” Furihata sunk down in his bed, settling a pillow on his lap. “But like…I can’t see how they could hurt me. They’re just dreams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horologium /ˌhɒrəˈloʊdʒiəm: Horologium is a faint constellation in the southern sky. The French astronomer Nicolas Louis de Lacaille first described the constellation in French as "l'Horloge à pendule & à secondes"-- the clock with pendulum and seconds hand, in 1752. One of its stars, R Horologii, is a red giant with one of the widest ranges in brightness.

His heart was beating in his ears, so much that it hurt. 

It was a practice game, between seniors and juniors, like the Seirin high team had from time to time. Given their senpai’s overwhelming ability and talent, times like these were the only times that Furihata really was able to play in anything approximating a real game. 

Well, that wasn’t true—it was fairly normal for coach to put in him for a quarter or two when they had practice games, but the heat and heaviness of the court always weighed him down so much that he was ready to collapse by the end. He knew this. It was frustrating, but right now, about a half was the best he could do before his nerves shot him down, and he couldn’t do anything more. 

But practice games within Seirin were different.

It was true that his senpai were absolutely amazing, but he also knew his senpai fairly well. He didn’t worry about his senpai judging him, or hurting him, or calling him hurtful names. He knew that their intention wasn’t to crush, but to teach. 

They were a guiding hand, not a crushing thumb.

His heart was thrumming. As a point guard, he had to take notice of everything. Watch his teammates and his opponents, and going up against Izuki, able to see all sides of the court without trouble, he was at a disadvantage. 

Though, compared to when he was up against Akashi, the difference in strength was much less, and the pressure less suffocating. 

Kuroko stole the ball from Mitobe, sending it towards him. He caught it, and felt it’s weight in his hands. Kagami was being double teamed. Kawabata and Fukuda were both marked. Furihata himself was marked. He took a few steps back, and Hyuuga followed. He took two steps to the right, and Kuroko stepped in to screen for him. 

He was now unmarked, and had the ball. 

Furihata’s handling skills were nothing to write home about, but he could at least dribble properly, a fact he noted with slight pleasure. It had taken him longer than he would like to admit to get the hang of it, but here he was.

Izuki stopped marking Kagami to intercept him. 

Furihata steeled himself.

He didn’t stop.

He kept running with the ball, as if he was about to plow right into Izuki, and, at the last moment, jumped. 

It wasn’t like Kagami’s godlike jumps, but rather it was a hop, a slight jump at most, just past the free throw line. He moved his arm in a motion he’d practiced every day at the court near his house, like scooping rice to be an onigiri. And he tossed it.

He was so close to Izuki when he jumped, he thought he really would end up fouling him. But his timing was right, and he didn’t actually hit him. 

The ball, cut through the air, bounced on the backboard, and went into the basket. 

Two points.

The reaction was instantaneous.

“What the heck was that?” Kagami yelled, running up to Furihata to slap him on the back. 

“Oi, oi, oi, that was Kasuga’s Scoop Shot, wasn’t it?” 

“Wait, who’s Kasuga again?” 

Riko sighed, slapping Kagami on the back. “At least remember the people we played other than the Miracles, Kagami. Seiho’s Kasuga Ryuuhei. I’m surprise you would try something like that, Furihata-kun.”

“W-well… I don’t stand a chance if I try to square off directly with someone, so...” he hated that his voice sounded so meek. 

Riko gave a slight smile, and touched his shoulder. “You practiced the scoop shot. It’s form of release means it goes under an enemy blocker--”

“--since you’re so short, I think it’s perfect for you!” Kagami said. “If you can’t shoot over, then just shoot under!”

“...I choose to take that as a compliment.”

“Jeez, these first years…” Hyuuga grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just breaking out new moves whenever, huh… What, next you’re gonna tell us you wanna go and crush the Generation of Miracles too?”

“I mean, Seirin beat all of them, so technically--” 

“I didn’t think you knew what “technically” meant, Kagami-kun.”

“Kuroko, what the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

While Kuroko and Kagami distracted themselves with their argument turned fight, he felt Izuki touch a hand to his shoulder.

“I really thought you were gonna foul me.”

“Aha, sorry about that. I really would never--”

“I would have had to call you a chicken if you did!”

“Oh, my god--”

“But leaving aside paltry poultry--”

“Please stop--”

“How long have you practiced that? You certainly didn’t do it today on a whim.”

“Aha… you noticed, huh…?” Furihata rubbed the back of his neck. “When I saw Kasuga-san do it, I thought… that maybe I could do it too. Everyone was practicing their own weapons, and I guess I was kinda miffed that I wasn’t getting some sort of super cool hidden ability… even though I just started...”

“Since Seiho?”

“Eh?”

“Have you been practicing that Scoop Shot since our game with Seiho?” Izuki sounded impressed.

“Uh… yeah. Is that weird? Well, I guess it’s more pathetic, since everyone can master abilities in just a month or two, I was practicing since the Interhigh in the summer, and it’s almost spring now, and it’s still only at this level...”

Izuki put his arm around his shoulder. “Listen, Furihata-kun. From one Point Guard to another...” he shakes his head. “No, from one normal guy to another.

“You have to understand. We talked about the Generation of Miracles like they were the monster. But really, Seirin is a team of monsters too. They can take an ability and etch it into their souls like no one’s business. But there are normal guys, like me and you, who get by just by trying. A little bit at a time. Whether you master skills in a few weeks like Kagami, or it takes you a year—you have to take it at your own pace.”

Furihata had never heard Izuki be so serious. “Wow… you sound just like a senpai!”

“I am a senpai. Either way—I think if you asked Kasuga, he would say that it took him ages to discover the scoop shot, and even longer to polish it to where it was when we played. I think you could use it against him. Those are the fruits of your diligent, careful practice.”

Izuki’s words made him glow inside. It’s not like he did things to be recognized, or even congratulated. He just did things because that’s what felt right. After going up against so many monstrously tall guys during the Interhigh, coming up with a way to shoot despite them just felt right.

Izuki gave a soft, sudden gasp. “Fruit scoop.”

Silence.

“...Is that a pun? I don’t think that’s a pun--”

“It’s a work in progress, don’t rush art.”

Furihata shook his head and turned to speak to his fellow first years, huddled up to discuss their next play now that the senpai’s rhythm had been shaken up by Furihata’s basket. 

“Froop Shoop!” Izuki yelped as Hyuuga smacked him in the back of the head.

“That’s not even Japanese!”

* * *

“--and then he said, “Froop Shoop.”

“Oh my god--” 

“No, no, I forgot the best part: before that, he said Fruit Scoop, as if that was a pun.”

“Hahahaha!”

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you’re laughing at Izuki-senpai’s puns. I’ll hang up on you.”

“That’s so rude, Kouki-kun. I’m mostly laughing at his lack of puns.

“Okay I’ll accept that.”

Kasuga Ryuuhei laughed softly from the other side of the phone, and Furihata felt himself smile. He’d managed to work up the courage and get the Seiho Point Guard’s number when they happened to meet up in the street ball tournament, before finding out that Kagami’s “brother” from America and Kuroko’s giant… friend?… from the Generation of Miracles was in Tokyo for sightseeing. It had taken a lot of sitting there and mentally preparing himself until Kuroko claimed he’d dropped something and shoved him towards the Point Guard.

When Furihata had awkwardly bumbled out that he wanted his number, the wolf whistles were deafening on both sides, until he hurriedly clarified (read: made a fool of himself) and said that he only wanted to ask about tips for increasing his Point Guard abilities.

Kasuga had said rather humbly that there were plenty of Point Guards that he could learn from, but had accepted and given his information.

Those first few conversations were awkward. But Kasuga was such a genuinely nice and polite person, that Furihata felt himself getting quickly comfortable. They didn’t text every day—it was sort of impossible, with Kasuga working on getting into college, and doing his finals, and he even talked about potentially finding a part time job at some point—but they kept in touch rather closely, calling and chatting with an ease that Furihata wished he could channel all the time. 

“Oh,” Kasuga’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Did I tell you?

“Tell me what?”

“Tsugawa found out that I was teaching you how to scoop shoot and he blew a gasket.”

Furihata had to think hard to remember who that was. Actually, given the generally professional and polite nature of Seiho as a team, the only person who he could imagine “blowing a gasket” was their shave-headed number 10. Or… was he number 9? ...Number 8? Furihata shook his head. Oh well, at least there was only one person on Seiho who fit that description, number notwithstanding.

“Did he give you trouble for it?”

“Pfft, a little. ‘Senpai, how could you?! You’re giving ammo to the enemy! We’re in the same block, so we’re definitely gonna have to face Seirin again, and you’re teaching them techniques?!’ On and on until he got dragged away. I swear, the mouth on that kid.”

Furihata wanted to smile, but something ate away at him.

“Is it a problem… teaching me the Scoop Shot?”

Kasuga hummed. “Not really. For me, I’m not part of the Seiho basketball club anymore. I mean, obviously everyone there is still my kouhai… but as a “senpai in basketball” I have to help all of my kouhai, whether they’re Seiho or not.”

“Waaa…you’re too nice Kasuga-senpai.”

“You only call my Kasuga-senpai when you want something from me.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“7 months of text logs say otherwise.”

“I take back what I said about you being nice.”

Their conversation lulled. He could hear Kasuga crunch on a snack, and then grunt, as if remembering something. 

“Oh yeah, I remembered. How’s that thing with your dreams going? Any change?”

“Same as always. It’s not like I want them to change or anything. I kinda like them.”

“Well, just because you like something doesn’t mean its good for you.”

“I know that.” Furihata sunk down in his bed, settling a pillow on his lap. “But like…I can’t see how they could hurt me. They’re just dreams.”

“You told me you don’t feel like yourself in them. It could be a symptom of something.”

“It’s not like…I mean, I’m definitely not me, but I’m not… NOT me.”

“I’m just gonna nod and pretend that made sense.”

“Hey, weird things happen in dreams! You told me once you dreamed that you became Ursula from the Little Mermaid after eating too much takoyaki.”

“Okay, okay, fair enough.”

Furihata is suddenly glad he didn’t tell him the part about him genuinely falling in love with the person he dreamed about every night. He figured if was worried about his dreams taking over his life NOW, that extra bit of information would only worsen his concern. Honestly, Kasuga was such a mom sometimes.

But sometimes that's what Furihata liked about him. 

* * *

“A voice sings out in the forest night, leads my way like a candlelight. If I can hear it, so can you.” 

In his dreams, he’s moving gracefully in small circles in the kitchen. His clothes are soft against his skin, and he can feel the tickle of hair on his shoulders. He’d never had hair this long, but as he feels it flowing behind him like a ribbon, accompanying the song he knows, yet doesn’t know at all. He finds a bag of loose tea. 

While there is normally pomp and ceremony to accompany drinking matcha, a small glass of black tea for himself and his love should be something simple and delightful. It’s cold, so he simply wants to warm him up as soon as possible. 

Furihata is willing to bet that his hands are cold from working so hard, as his heart is warm from the emotions he pours onto the page.

“The cry that echoes through the years, clears my mind of its deepest fears. If I can hear it, why can’t you?”

He grasps the kettle carefully, thick cloth protecting his hands from being burned, though the heat eats through and radiates a comfortable warmth onto his cold palms. He waits a moment, then pours the hot water into the waiting cup. 

Vaguely, he remembers that his love had once chided him, saying that he’s awful at brewing tea. The memory causes indignation to rise in him, though whether its his own, or whoever he Is right now is unclear. The line between Furihata and Not Furihata, the person he becomes when he’s asleep, is blurry. He knows that he’s not him, but he’s also very obviously him. He feels at home in this skin, like living at college and coming back home during winter break, or having a long vacation at an inn and returning home on Sunday night.

“The owl calls out to me, it shows me where to go. Hiroshima, to Hiroshima...”

He sets the kettle back into its proper place, not wanting to damage the wood. He looks, and can see brown, ugly circles where something hot was placed on the wood and caused burns. There are many of them, and he feels a red-hot pang of guilt. 

He caused almost all of them.

Furihata wanted to laugh. It’s nice to know that even in his dreams he’s both clumsy and incredibly persistent, even if it causes problems for others.

Honestly he’s still not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.

Though, to be fair, it’s not like he needs to worry about inconveniencing a bunch of people who don’t exist outside of his head.

“The voice sings out in the forest night, hush little one; it’ll be alright. My white owl is calling you...”

The final note of the song is somewhere somber, and Furihata feels a strange hollowness for a moment, but only for a moment.

Then it is gone, as he smells the tea seeping merrily.

He places small snacks on the tray, and lifts it, balancing it easily on one hand, with his other hand supporting the cups.

Slowly, with practiced ease, he turns towards the door, and sees it ajar.

‘Huh. I didn’t leave it ajar when I came in.’

He walks towards it easily, and carefully slides it open.

The hall is empty, and warm from the burning lamps. Outside, the frozen wind is blowing, and he feels that hollow pang again. Down the hall, his eyes look at his master’s commissioned poems. 

Some are stark and clear, while others are a blurry smudge, like the hand of a child swiped at it while the ink was still wet, and smeared it all away.

Those, he knew, were the poems of his love. And he felt hollow, but it was not the Him of his dreams. Furihata himself felt the hollowness, it was yet another thing he couldn’t quite remember, couldn’t quite clarify. 

It felt like he was missing something, something important, but his mind just couldn’t grasp it. It was just too too far. He could brush it with his fingertips, but he couldn’t grasp it.

He stopped at one of the doors and gave a small, knock. “Excuse the interruption, I brought tea.”

“…y…ah…n…me…n.”

He slid the door open, and saw his love facing away from him. His hanten was pulled tightly around him, and his feet were clad warmly in the insulated socks he’d bought for him last winter. He felt happy to see them, more than someone probably should. His hair was pinned back, but only his bangs. His hair wasn’t long, like his own.

This was the most Furihata had seen of his love in a long time, perhaps ever.

Even still, he was blurry at the edges, washed out. He could tell his skin was pale, but the other colors ran together. He shuffled closer, placing the tea on the tatami and kneeling into almost-seiza.

He couldn’t do it, not even in his dreams.

He closed his eyes and gave a bow, even as his love’s back was turned to him. “Please, help yourself.”

His voice rang in clearly.

“Ah, it smells delightful.”

Furihata woke up with his face buried in his pillow, and could still smell the tatami, the tea, and ink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying! I've started sprinkling some hints of where I want this story to go in this chapter. I've decided that the dreams, at least, are definitely going to be nonlinear later on. Wish me luck!


	4. Lacertae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Oh my god shut up I am in the middle of class, shut up, shut up please.’
> 
> [ I just wanna also point out that at no point did you deny that you would wanna suck someone’s dick. I just want you to be aware of that. You are 100% down for some D, huh? ]
> 
> ‘Oh my god!’
> 
> [ You’re a cute twink, so if you really want to, I bet you could go to a gay bar and make someone’s night. ]
> 
> ‘I’m going to regret asking this, but what is a twink?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lacertae /læˈkɜːrti/: Lacertae is typical of Milky Way constellations: no bright galaxies, nor globular clusters. Without apparently bright stars, Lacerta was apparently not regarded as a constellation by ancient Western astronomers. Johannes Hevelius created the constellation in 1687, and initially named it "Stellio", after a newt with star-like dorsal spots found along the Mediterranean coast.

‘So are you going to explain what the hell that was, or what?’

[ I’ll take “Or What” for 300, Rou. ]

Akashi was sitting at his desk, eyes trained on the blackboard as he took notes on Japanese grammar that he already knew. The complicated grammar of “polite speech” was something he’d been speaking since he was very young. It was a necessary skill in the world of business, especially if you mingled in the same circles that he did. Even other Japanese people thought it was just deeper bows, and a -sama or two, but it really was like speaking an entirely different language. He could see the confusion on some of his classmates’ faces.

Thinking about things being ‘not quite Japanese’ had reminded him of that dream his Brother had showed him, the old house, and the poem laid out in front of him that he’d, thankfully, remembered and used as his poety homework instead of the poem he’d written with Hayama and Mibuchi. 

‘Don’t be like that. You can’t just show me something like that and expect me not to wonder what was going on. I couldn’t even change anything. I can always change my dreams.’

[ You should be careful. That urge to constantly be in control is what made me be in charge in the first place. ]

His Brother didn’t even have a voice, and he could tell his tone was teasing.

‘You suck.’

[ If you had a say in the matter, you would too ]

It took all of Akashi’s practiced control of his facial muscles not to blush bright red and sputter in the middle of learning about how to talk about sentence construction. He gripped his mechanical pencil tightly, and almost tore a gash into his notebook from suddenly pressing down too hard.

‘That’s neither here nor there! My preferences are not your business!’

[ We share a body, and a mind. Where you desire to put our mouth is very much my business ]

‘Shut up!’

[ And where you put your hands too, by the way-- ]

‘SHUT UP!’

His Brother was laughing, and Akashi just wanted to hide his face and die. He knew that putting his head down would actually attract attention, though. He tried to ignore his Brother’s laughter, but it was really hard to ignore something that was broadcasting directly to your brain, overriding your ears.

‘It’s MY mouth! I can do what I want with MY body.’

[ Even if I’m straight? You’re just going to make me suck dick because you want to? ] 

‘Oh my god shut up I am in the middle of class, shut up, shut up please.’

[ I just wanna also point out that at no point did you deny that you would wanna suck someone’s dick. I just want you to be aware of that. You are 100% down for some D, huh? ]

‘Oh my god!’

[ You’re a cute twink, so if you really want to, I bet you could go to a gay bar and make someone’s night. ]

‘I’m going to regret asking this, but what is a twink?’

The raucous laughter in his head distracted him for the rest of the lesson, and he regretted ever talking to his Brother. Their conversations always turned out like this.

To tell the truth, he himself had had misconceptions about his brother, and how he felt and acted. When He was in control, he thought of Him as being brutal and ruthless. Like a serial killer barely restraining himself from ending the lives of everyone around him. His Brother’s eyes were mismatched and cold, and he’d never seen a trace of remorse in them. 

He was unhinged, in every sense of the word, and while Akashi knew that he wouldn’t hurt the people that Akashi himself cared for—the whole reason his Brother even existed was in a desperate attempt to keep his small, found family from fracturing, which they did eventually anyway—he also knew that his Brother wouldn’t value or care about anyone else. Everyone else was just in the way, and needed to be dispatched in some way.

But now that his Brother WASN’T in control, he could see that he’s less “evil” and more…” annoying”. He’d often heard that Brothers could be like that. ESPECIALLY younger brothers.

[ I am not your younger brother. ] 

‘I was here first. Then you came along and made yourself comfortable in my head. So yes, you are the younger brother.’

[ Pfft. If that’s what it takes to let you sleep at night, big boy. ]

‘I do not like the way you said that.’

[ You don’t like the way I say a lot of things. ]

  

* * *

“Akashi, I have a question.”

Akashi paused, poised to shoot his 6th consecutive basket, when Hayama jaunted over to him, his eyes bright and mischievous, holding is own basketball in his hands. The Rakuzan basketball team was practicing in full force, and he could even see the second string hard at work for the chance to take Mayuzumi’s opening once he graduated at the end of the year. He couldn’t see any of the third string players, as they tended to practice in the larger gym.

There were a lot of players on the Rakuzan third string, after all. 

Akashi tucked his basketball under his arm and tugged his shirt up to wipe away a bit of sweat. “And I suppose you would like me to answer it?”

Hayama gave an energetic nod.

“Is it relevant to practice?”

“Define relevant.”

“So no, then?”

Hayama shook his head, spinning his basketball on his fingers. “Well! I mean, it’s on my mind, so if you don’t answer it, I’m gonna keep thinking about it, and thinking about it, and then practice won’t be as effective, so if you think about it THAT way--”

“Is this going to be like the time you asked me why snakes don’t have arms?”

“That was a VALID question! It was keeping me up at night!”

Akashi just sighed. He hated to admit that when Hayama first asked the question, he’d waved it off and called it silly. Yet the same night, when he went to bed, he found himself actually losing sleep over it. Why DID snakes not have arms? Obviously, he told himself, they evolved to simply not have them anymore. But then… why evolve to not have arms or legs? Especially since like…almost everything had legs. 

He’d looked it up instead of sleeping, and quickly fell down a rabbit hole of educational YouTube videos about evolution. When he told Hayama it involved something called a Sonic hedgehog gene, and that some snakes actually DO grow legs while they’re embryos, his response had been: “Great. Now I’m even more confused.”

Followed quickly by: 

“Oh my god, the gene for building leggies is called “Sonic hedgehog”? Scientists are fucking nerds.”

But Hayama leaned in closer, breaking Akashi’s thought process. “It’s about you, actually. The other you. You 2. Aka-ni.”

“All of those names sound terrible.” 

“I know right? But you call him “brother”, right?”

For a brief moment he wondered how Hayama knew that, before remembering the “poem” he’d written about hating him. 

“I do.”

“What’s his name?”

Akashi opened his mouth to answer, before he realized he didn’t know. He’d thought of the other him as just being an extension of himself. He knew, obviously, that there was something which separated the two of them. For one, Akashi knew there were things his Brother knew that he did not, which always struck him as odd. If they’re the same person, their levels of knowledge should be the same. And yet, his Brother knew about things he didn’t, going so far as to tease him about them.

So he and his Brother were no doubt different, yet he never thought about him having a name. But now that Hayama mentioned it, it made perfect sense for him to have a name, a different name from Akashi’s own. 

They could not be the same person, as they had obviously not existed at the same time. 

“I… don’t know. I’ve never asked.”

“Huh. Lemme ask him!”

“Huh?”

“Oooooi! Other Akashi! What’s your name!?”

“Stop yelling in my ear!”

“Did he hear me?”  
Akashi rubbed his ringing ears. “I’m pretty sure the whole gym heard you.”

“Then? What is it?”

‘Are you going to answer him, Brother?’

[ What good would him knowing my name do? It’s not like I can talk to anyone but you. ]

‘Well, I certainly wanna know your name.’

[ I’ve been here for two years, and you still haven’t bothered to ask. That hurts. Some brother you are ]

‘Do you have a name or not?’

[ It’s Seiji ] 

He paused for a moment. Somehow he’d known that. Some weird, deep part of him keened at the name, like he’d always known it. Seiji and Seijurou. It made perfect sense, to him somehow. Thinking about it, it explained why he always called him “Rou”, and not “Sei”. If their names both started with “Sei”, then using it as a nickname for either of them would get really confusing really fast.

‘Then, the shortened name would be--’

[ It would be “Ji”, yes. ]

Rou and Ji. Somehow, this too, felt obvious.

“Earth to Akashi?” Hayama’s excitement gave way to concern. “Oh god, I didn’t yell you deaf did I? Oh man, Reo-nee is gonna kill me if I did--”

Akashi held up a hand to stop him. “No, Hayama, It’s quite okay. I was just asking my Brother what his name was. It seems he does have one, but I never knew.”

“Oh sweet. What is it then?”

“He says it’s Seiji.”

Hayama whistled. “Akashi Seijurou and Akashi Seiji, huh? I guess Reo-nee can call Seiji “Ji-chan”! Oh man, that’ll be funny.

Something about Mibuchi calling someone of Akashi’s age and stature “uncle” did actually sound amusing. Akashi let a little chuckle fall from his lips. It was a moot point though. He never intended to let Seiji take control again. This was his body. He wasn’t giving it up to anyone, not even his brother.

* * *

 

‘Are you going to take control again tonight?’

[ Yes. I wanna show you something. ]

‘You could just tell me. You don’t have to send me on a wild goose chase through my own subconcious.’

[ There are things that can’t be explained with just words, Rou. This is one of them. ]

Akashi sighed, and opened his eyes. It was late summer this time, the heat of August just starting to give in to comfortable coolness of September. He was dressed again in robes, simple and airy, and he could feel the slight wind cooling him off. He was sitting out on the outer terrace of a house, not sitting seiza like before, but settled comfortably on a bench. He took in his surroundings. There was a pond to his right, where large koi swam, and rocks were arranged in a pattern. To his right, he could see servants, both men and women moving to and from the house.

He felt a strange pang, of an emotion he hadn’t felt before. Or at least, not in a long time. It was the distinct feeling of something being wrong. This peaceful atmosphere felt wrong somehow. He turned to his left.

Sitting next to him, was a platter of tea, and snacks. The tea was cold. He figures it had been sitting there for at least an hour.

He looks down at his hands. There were covered with ink. It was still wet too, and had stained the summer yukata he was wearing. It was ruined then—no matter how many washes, the ink would likely not come out.

He felt disgust well up inside him, like he was moments from throwing up. The nausea came on quick, and would not subside. Without warning, Akashi beganto hate this place. He wanted to leave, as soon as possible. 

Akashi stood from his seat, and walked towards the koi pond. He walked through the rock garden, past the bustling servants, past the house, and placed his hand on the gate.

“….an?”

He didn’t turn around, but he felt his shoulders tense. That voice. It was that beautiful man’s voice.

“L… n…..? M…. m… p…”

“I’m just stepping out for a short walk. Please, don’t worry yourself about me.”

He wanted to turn, to get another look at his face. His heart was beating in his ears, and he swallowed around nothing, trying to relax. Why was he so nervous? Why was he shaking so much? Why was Seiji showing him this? What even WAS this?

“…r….nds…. Nd…?”

“Oh…. Please don’t worry. It was just another case of artist’s block.”

He could feel the concern in his voice, and he so much wanted to turn and embrace the man, run his hand through the long brown locks, to feel it cascading over his fingers, to hug away all the stress and worry….

At the same time, that wave of nausea came back. He dug his nails into the wood of the door, feeling it splinter. If this wasn’t a dream, he would surely feel splinters under his finger nails.

“...ll ….m….ster… leave….?”

“Please don’t. He’ll send …. out to look for me.”

What? 

He brought a hand to his throat. “I wouldn’t want to trouble … like that.”

He couldn’t say it. 

He’d never been so unable to control a dream. At first, he couldn’t hear others, and now there were words he himself couldn’t say?

He reached into his mind for Seiji. ‘What is this? What’s happening? I don’t understand.’

[ … there are things we aren’t meant to remember. ]

‘Like what? Ji, what’s--’

That beautiful voice cut though his thoughts, and he felt something inside him fold, soft hands turning his nausea into a paper crane.

“Do you want me to make you something before you come back?”

“...Please do.”

* * *

Akashi was awake, and he looked as his alarm clock. Its soft blue numbers told him he still had another hour before he would need to get out of bed. He usually didn’t bother to talk to his brother in the morning—oddly enough, despite he himself being an early riser naturally, it seemed like Ji preferred to sleep in late. He didn’t even respond to him until 10 am most days. Since learning he had a name, Akashi had become weirdly aware of how…. Human his brother seemed. How even though they shared this body, it was less like Seiji floated in a dark abyss in his mind, and more like…

More like his mind was some kind of home, or room for him.

‘Ji. Ji, wake up.’

Akashi could actually hear the sleepy groan. He could almost picture his brother, asleep in a bed, pulling the covers over his head to ignore him. Akashi found if he focused hard, he could almost see Seiji, and the space around him.

He almost laughed at how many blankets Ji “had” on the bed he’d made for himself, in the mental space they shared. He wondered, if they switched places this time, if he would end up in Ji’s room, rather than the dark empty space he’d sequestered himself in.

‘Come on, you can’t sleep forever.’

[ Sure I can, you’re the one who has to go to school, not me. What do you want? ]

He kept focusing on Ji. He was sitting up in bed now, his face annoyed and his red hair—short, the same as Seijurou’s—an untamed mess of bedhead. He was pretty sure his own hair didn’t look that wild when he woke up. He almost laughed as Ji reached over to take a piece of toast from a platter beside his bed that had definitely not been there before. Why did he bother to eat in his head? Why did he bother to make a bed, or sleep at all? 

Why did Ji act so… “human”?

‘Who are you?’

[ Did you really wake me up at 5 am to ask stupid questions like that? ] 

‘Maybe.’

[ I’m you ]

Akashi seemed unconvinced. ‘Are you really?’

Ji was quiet, and Akashi saw him reach over and drink a mug of… was that hot cocoa? Why drink hot cocoa in the morning? Why drink anything at all?

[ I’m more you than anyone else, Rou. ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF, it's been a while huh guys! Sorry this took so long. I actually wrote and rewrote this chapter a bunch of times. Initially this chapter was centered around Akashi and Murasakibara, but I found that that was just not flowing as well as I'd hoped, so I ended up scrapping it.
> 
> I think this one flows much better, so I hope you enjoy! And hopefully the next chapter doesn't take so long :P


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